4: The Date
by Math Girl
Summary: As the Olympics proceed, Scott "rescues" an old friend. Follow-up to Hammerhead. Somewhat Alternate Universe.
1. Default Chapter

_Events here take place more or less simultaneously with the last quarter of Hammerhead. Still AU, but somewhat less so than the others. Many thanks to Tikatue for chapterizing it all for me. )_

**The Date**

1.

Cindy Taylor was in Tampa, Florida, covering a beauty pageant. A boring, belittling, rotten damn beauty pageant. Rosy-cheeked teen-aged girls, their waists about as big around as Cindy's wrist, cavorted in the tropical sun.

Bouncing beach balls, posing for photographers, and flaunting their taut, air-headed youth, each of them had some moist-eyed plan to save the (World, children, fur seals, whales, whatever! It was all so depressingly interchangeable!) through peace and love, or the power of song. Cindy was in hell.

Her interviews grew increasingly sarcastic, her questions more patronizing as the days went by, yet the vapid little kewpie dolls answered as earnestly as though it really mattered which flavor of ice cream cone they'd rather be (butter-brickle rum mustard, Cindy would have responded, had anyone cared to know).

It was on the third day of the pageant, during a swimsuit competition featuring animated Barbie dolls wearing little more than band-aids and dental floss, that Cindy saw him. The carefully plotted competition was taking place by the main pool of the luxuriously pink Don Cesare Hotel, with Cindy providing increasingly caustic narration.

It was August, the day was gaspingly hot, and she would far rather have been ducking bullets while running for the last plane out of some third world pest-hole, than enduring another red, white blue sequined thong. Scanning the crowd for something to do between contestants, Cindy spied the best-looking man in the world, leaning casually against a concrete pillar. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and Khaki trousers, mirrored aviator sunglasses, and a pair of Italian leather shoes that probably cost more than her entire outfit, camera and microphones included.

He had his hands in his pockets, and, charmingly enough, with all the half-clad beauties bouncing past him, he was looking only at her, smiling broadly. Suddenly self-conscious, Cindy smoothed her dark hair with one hand, then walked over, trying to be graceful in heels about half an inch too high for comfort.

"Hi, Scott," she greeted him, almost casually. "What're you doing here?"

He grinned, big and lazy as a sun-warmed cat.

"I was about to ask you the same thing. A _beauty pageant?"_

Cindy shrugged miserably, muttering, "Station manager didn't like my last report, I guess. Ah, who cares? ...He's a jerk, anyway. Want to go someplace?"

Taking off the sunglasses, Scott Tracy lifted an eyebrow; warmth, amusement and curiosity mingling in his violet-blue eyes.

"In the middle of your story? I don't want to get you in trouble, or anything. I can hang around while you wrap this up. I've got 36 hours."

He said this like he'd been granted a presidential pardon, or something, but all Cindy could see was an avalanche of sand roaring inexorably through a gianthour-glass. Not a moment to waste!

Removing her microphone chip, she shut it down and stuffed it back in her pocket, saying,

"Actually, you can consider this a rescue, Hollywood, because I'm going to lose my mind if I have to come up with another damn synonym for 'perky'!"

Scott laughed, then put a swift, strong arm around her shoulders and gave Cindy a roughly affectionate hug.

"War correspondents," he chuckled, "make lousy beauty queens."

"I'm not competing!" Cindy snapped, not really putting all that much effort into breaking free.

"You ought to be," he replied lightly, releasing her at last. "You've certainly got _my_ vote."

Coloring to the roots of her hair, Cindy smiled up at him, every edge and prickle temporarily sanded smooth. This was the third time she'd spoken with him, not counting brief notes and phone messages, and he already felt closer, and more important, than any friend she'd ever had.

Not being the gooey sort, she responded to Scott's compliment by teasing him back.

"Aww..., I bet you say that to all the jaded, cynical reporters!"

"Just the pretty ones," he replied, standing there as hard-muscled and beautifully chiseled as a Greek god. "So..., where to? I've got a list of the local hot spots, if you haven't got a preference. My brother sent it along."

Scott offered her his arm and they started walking away from the pool, leaving a very startled group of would-be beauty queens milling about in spangled confusion.

"Virgil, or Alan?" She asked, pleased that she'd remembered his brothers' names.

"John," he corrected absently, glancing at his watch.

_'Wow!' _She thought, _'Big family!'_ Wealthy, too, if they could afford the taxes on four kids. They were halfway through the hotel's posh, Mediterranean-style grand hall, when Scott remembered something. Pausing a moment, he rummaged through his pockets until he found a small manilla envelope.

"Almost forgot," he said wryly. "Virgil's idea, really, and he'll kill me if I don't give it to you. He seems to think Thunderbird 1 isn't good enough. Here."

He opened the little envelope and tapped its contents onto the palm of her hand as the perfumed, tinkling bustle of the Don Cesare went on all around them. Cindy laughed at the tiny golden mock-up of Thunderbird 2 that tumbled forth. Another bracelet charm.

"And what does this one do?" She inquired with a smile.

"Miniature death-ray," he replied, straight-faced. Then, "Just kidding. Opens electronic locks, any and all of 'em. That way, you'll never have to worry about being locked out of your car, or anyone else's."

"Thanks, I... Oops! _There's the pageant director! Run!"_

They raced from the hotel lobby holding hands, reaching Scott's silver Porsche convertible out of breath and laughing. As Cindy plopped herself down onto glove-soft leather, Scott keyed up the top, darkened the windows, gunned the engine, and peeled out of the parking lot like a wanted felon.

"What do I owe you for the rescue?" She asked mischievously, as the Don Cesare shrank away behind them.

"A date."

Cindy grinned. "You Thunderbird guys work cheap, don't you?"

Scott snorted. "You have no idea," he said. "Although Virgil keeps kidding around about organizing a union." After a bit of stop-and-go traffic, he turned onto the highway, saying, "So, what do you want to do? Get something to eat, see a movie, go to Busch Gardens? Your call."

Cindy considered. With only 36 hours together, she didn't want to waste time on a possibly boring movie, and she wasn't much hungry. The theme park sounded good, though. Lots of time to talk, wander around and enjoy each other's company.

"I'm up for Busch Gardens, if you are," she ventured, not wanting to seem too pushy.

"Right. Of course, there's always Disney World, if you're into parks, but that's over in Orlando, and I was just there a few weeks ago, with my brother. Not that, um..., I wouldn't be happy to go again..., if you wanted to, I mean."

Cindy smiled and shook her head. "Busch Gardens is fine." Then, "Which brother? John, Alan or Virgil?"

"Gordon."

She turned to stare at him. _"Another_ brother? How many do you have!"

"The list goes on and on," Scott sighed. "There's five of us, actually, plus Father. And Mom, too..., before."

Sensing that the topic hurt, Cindy changed the subject. "So... you've had enough of Disney World?"

Scott shrugged, made a turn signal, and swerved around a big, slow robot truck.

"It was okay, what I saw of it. See, the thing about Gordon is, he tends to do the first thing that pops into his head. We'd been there for an hour, maybe, when he decided it'd be loads of fun to do a head stand on the back of one of those big draft horses they pull their trolleys with. Mickey was not amused."

Cindy laughed again, enjoying the imagery. "I'm sorry," she said at last, earnestly attempting to sober up. "It's just that I can see you going nuts trying not to commit fratricide on 'holy ground'."

"Yeah," Scott replied sourly. "We got thrown out, which is probably what Gordon had in mind in the first place, come to think of it. He wanted to go to Universal, all along."

It gradually dawned on Cindy, as they drove to the park, that all of the other International Rescue pilots were Scott's brothers. Evidently, the organization was a lot smaller than she, and the rest of the world, had been led to believe. Her interest in Scott was personal (very), but her reporter's instincts were powerful, and she had to force herself not to probe further. After all, he was taking a giant risk letting her get this close, and she would rather have died than drive him off now. It was scary, how strongly she'd come to feel about him since Macedonia. Nothing else seemed to matter; not her job, her reputation, not even her friends or coworkers. Family...? Well, she hadn't any family left besides her father, slowly dissolving in the empty fog bank of Alzheimer's disease. Long lost in the shuffle of travel and notoriety, Cindy's heart was finally beginning to make itself felt. _'This is the one,'_ it told her. _'This is the man you're going to love for the rest of your life.'_

Naturally, she squashed it, not wanting to jinx a good thing.

_Later:_

Busch Gardens turned out to be an excellent choice. The menagerie contained beasts from Africa, Asia and the wilder portions of America, plus several newly-created exotics revived from ancient DNA. The aurochs, cave bears and wooly mammoths were particularly breath-taking, Cindy thought, gazing in awe at the distant past brought to vibrant, bellowing life.

At the arcade shooting gallery, Scott won her a funny little stuffed ground sloth, and they spent the rest of the afternoon ambling hand-in-hand from one diversion to the next, eating synthetic ice cream, and foot-long hot dogs that almost tasted like real meat. (Anheuser-Busch worked wonders with spiced protein powder.) The only downside was Scott's tendency to tense up around the roller-coasters. All the screaming people, probably. Cindy pretended not to notice.

They stayed till the park closed, watching the fireworks show from a cramped perch on some concrete steps. She'd had to sit on Scott's lap to make room for an exhausted young couple with loud, sticky, three-year-old twins, God bless them.

She was snugged in sideways, leaning against his chest, only occasionally looking up at the fireworks... very warm, very content. His voice sounded different, filtered through his chest, Cindy noticed drowsily; deeper, and slightly muffled.

Later that evening, as he dropped her off at the lobby of her hotel (definitely _not _the Don Cesare- Jake wasn't made of money, blah, blah, blah...) Scott took both her hands. She could tell from his expression that he was back on shaky ground again, and nervous as a teen-aged farm boy.

"Thanks," she said, to cover his awkwardness. "I had fun, won a ground sloth, _and_ got saved from a fate worse than death. What a guy."

It worked. He flashed that confident grin again, saying,

"Well, damsels in distress are a specialty of ours." Then, growing a bit more serious, "Listen, I was thinking..., my brother's swimming in a few events over in Portland...,"

"Dare I ask which one?" She halfway expected to hear yet another solid, white-bread American name. Stanley, Zeke, Peter..., he _did _seem to have rather an endless supply of brothers. But Scott shook his head.

"Gordon, again. He's competing in the Olympics this year, and I wanted to watch a few of the races. Want to come along? I could pick you up tomorrow morning and fly us out there."

Cindy's mind was made up before he stopped talking. Jake would almost certainly fire her, but...

"Sure. Sounds like fun. What time?"

"Say..., 0700. Here in the lobby."

"Deal. I'll be suited up, and ready for extraction, first thing in the morning."

Cindy joked now to cover up a sudden, overwhelming surge of emotion. She wanted... very much... to invite him up, but something told her that she hadn't yet gotten to that level in the complicated puzzle box that was Scott Tracy. So, it was a complete surprise to her when he leaned forward, pulled her in a bit, and kissed her.

It was warmth, high voltage and extreme tenderness at one and the same time. If he hadn't been holding her, Cindy would have fallen. A warm, tingling explosion started somewhere near the pit of her stomach and spread like fire throughout her suddenly weak and shaky form.

The kiss must have lasted a while, because people in the lobby began applauding, and someone shouted,

"Come up for air!"

They laughed a little, and separated; out of breath and glowing.

"S- seven o'clock," she said, when enough brain cells showed up for work.

"Yeah. In the lobby."

She nodded. "I'll be here."

"Okay." He mussed her dark hair affectionately, kissed her forehead, then started walking slowly backward, in the presumed direction of the lobby doors. Cindy stood rooted to the spot, watching till Scott was swallowed at last by the darkness of the tropical night.

"I love you," she whispered softly.


	2. Chapter 2: The past

_The second day, on the way to Portland, and a painful flashback. Thanks, Manders! _

2

He showed up to collect her at 6:45 AM, which was fine, as she'd been waiting since 6:30.

"Morning," he greeted her. "Sleep well?"

"Not a wink," she admitted, laughing at her own impatience, and his. "I was up all night drumming my fingers. What about you?"

"Balanced my accounts. Answered all my email and phone messages. Did a couple of laps in the pool, went to the weight room...,"

"Show off!" All Cindy had done was order pastries from room service. Chocolate ones.

"I like to keep busy."

Great. A cheerful morning person _and _an over-achiever. Cindy would have felt inadequate, if she hadn't liked him so much. Then a quick kiss drove away all complaints, and she forgave him the seeming perfection.

Soon afterward, they left the hotel, stopping for breakfast at a roadside Cuban café that brought out real eggs and meat when they read Scott's ID chip. It seemed he had quite a bit of money, though it wasn't until later that Cindy realized how much.

At Tampa International Airport, he parked beside a massive hangar with a colorful corporate logo; Tracy Aerospace. Cindy's eyes widened, as she put two and two together. Scott was one of _those _Tracys? Calling him merely wealthy was an insult, then. Jeff Tracy bought and sold billionaires, running a multi-national corporation so vast and powerful, it was nearly a government in its own right. That explained International Rescue's financing and technology, she supposed... And made her more curious than ever.

The plane he chose from the company "stables" was a sleek business jet, silver in color, glowing with power and speed. With a continent and several time zones to cross, Scott was in a definite hurry. They were up and on their way in less than ten minutes, after a swift, thorough pre-flight; Scott in the left seat, Cindy riding shot gun.

A chime sounded about ten minutes into the flight, and one of the instrument displays developed a bit of static, then converted to some kind of view screen.

Craning her neck a bit, Cindy saw a man's face; calm, severe and icily handsome. Very blond, he had Scott's violet-blue eyes and the sort of features one expected to see pouting from a bill-board over Times Square. There was a bank of complex instrumentation behind him. Computer equipment, maybe.

"Good morning, Scott," he said. "I've up-loaded the conversion package." Then, looking over slightly to her side of the cockpit, he added. "You're covered."

"Thanks. John, this is Cindy Taylor. Cindy, my brother John."

Scott's younger brother gave her a slight nod, and a direct, measuring gaze. Like a cat, she thought; very focused and intent.

"Hi," she responded, with a little smile and wave. He did something, just out of camera range, and Cindy had the sudden impression that he'd called up her data file, or some such. As he scanned it, something flickered in his eyes, briefly. Surprise?

"What?" Cindy asked, testily. She wasn't overfond of surprises.

"Beg pardon?"

"Your poker face slipped for just a moment there, Sport, at the end of my file." Pure guess work, but it seemed likely. "What's wrong?"

John glanced at his brother, who shrugged, managing to hide a sly grin. As good as permission, apparently.

"According to your status report," John told her, his manner thawing slightly, "you're officially listed as a missing person. Seems your employer thinks you've been kidnapped."

_"WHAT!_ You're kidding!" Cindy cried aloud, starting halfway out of her seat. "What d'you mean, I've been kidnapped!"

John shook his head. "I just scan it. I don't make it up," he said calmly, momentarily sounding just like her boss, Jake Hall.

"You can fix it, though, can't you?" Cindy demanded.

John straightened a bit, once more cold and proud as a Borgia.

"What makes you think...," he shot back, but Cindy cut him off, leaning across Scott to jab a finger at the screen.

"Mister, I think you can do anything you want to, with all that data access. In fact, I think you're probably one of the most scary-powerful damn people on the planet! How's that grab you? Now, are you going to help out, or is Scott going to get arrested for kidnapping, the minute we land?"

John said nothing for a long moment, a small muscle twitching slightly at the corner of his finely-modeled mouth. Then, he reached over and tapped something out on a nearby keyboard.

"Right. Taken care of. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm behind schedule on my world take-over. Talk to you later, Scott."

"Yeah," his older brother managed, keeping a mostly straight face until the transmission cut off. Then he slumped back in the pilot's seat, laughing quietly.

"Well...," he said at last, "either you've won him over...,"

"...Or, I wake up tomorrow penniless and marked for death," she finished, glumly. "Has he _always _been like that! I mean, no offense, Scott, but I can just see your brother as a little kid, making death rays out of tinker toys, and plotting to rule the Earth!"

She wasn't prepared for how suddenly his expression changed. Abruptly, Scott was quiet and grim, all humor leached away.

"No, not always. He, ah... was kind of a clown, before. Goofy, sort of. A little like Gordon. Then, everything changed.., after the accident. It hit him hardest of all of us, I think, because he was closest to mom."

Scott stared directly ahead as he spoke, hands locked on the steering yoke. A little hesitantly, Cindy reached out and touched his near shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to stir up painful memories. It was a joke. I kind of like him, believe it or not."

Scott smiled distantly, mind and heart still elsewhere.

"Not your fault," he replied. "Not anybody's. John's a big boy, he's adapted. We all have. But, I worry about him, spending all that time alone up there. Can't be good for him."

Cindy didn't know quite what to say, so she did the smart thing, and kept quiet. Scott was talking more to himself than her now, anyway, the words coming slowly, from deep within.

"I was nine, John was seven. Virgil was still in kindergarten, and Gordon was a baby. One year old. We shouldn't even have been there. It was supposed to be Mom and Dad's European second honeymoon, but you know how kids are..., hate to get left behind. Mom must've felt bad for us. She talked Father into bringing us all along." His voice grew very flat, almost blending with the droning hum of the jet's four engines. "Maybe..," he ventured, "...if we'd stayed home... maybe Father would have been able to save Mom, instead of worrying about us. Maybe she'd still be alive."

So many 'maybes', so many 'if onlys'... Scott continued to talk, conjuring pale, ghostly images of events, and people, long past.

... It was a bright, clear day in mid-winter, still and calm. The majestic Swiss Alps rose, sharp as a row of wolves' teeth, their flanks and peaks heavy with new fallen snow.

The family..., mother, father, three boys and a baby..., rode the cable car from their chalet to the lofty ski slope. The boys were excited, dashing from one side of the gently swaying car to the other, pointing out the sights and boasting of how fast they were going to ski. Their father, irritated, lifted his head from the newspaper and snapped at them.

"Scott, John, Virgil! Sit down and be quiet! You're disturbing your mother!"

They weren't, actually. She was playing with the baby, her fourth son, covering her face and peeking out again with little, joyful cries, making him squeal with laughter. Kissing the baby's face, and his wispy-fine red hair, she said gently,

"It's alright, Jeff; really. They're just full of energy. Boys, come sit by mommy."

They settled down briefly, still vibrating with eagerness, poking each other and making faces at the baby. Their father shook his head, but yielded to his wife, something he seemed to do a lot. Though gruff and business-like by nature, Jeff Tracy adored his wife, and could refuse her nothing she really wanted. Sitting now in one of the cable car's hard plastic seats, he watched as golden sunlight poured in through the windows, sparking highlights from her blonde hair and diamond earrings.

Lucinda was more beautiful than he deserved, and more patient, and for her sake, Jeff tried to relax and enjoy what was supposed to have been their second honeymoon. Kids or no kids, he supposed he could at least enjoy a little skiing, and some well-earned time off...

A sudden, loud _'WHUMP'_ interrupted his reverie, shaking the cable car and bringing Jeff halfway out of his seat. The car vibrated again, as another dull thud rocked the mountainside.

Lucinda turned in her seat, concerned.

"Jeff...?" She asked, clutching their baby a little closer. Though alarmed, Jeff did his best to keep his face and voice calm as he strode along to the front of the cable car for a better look at the mountain.

All at once, something happened so big and unbelievable that his mind simply refused to take it in. The mountainside above their car seemed to sink slightly, as though a giant, invisible hand had pressed down upon the snow. Then, in one huge rush, a great slab of snow and ice detached itself from its base and came thundering down the slope like a frozen tidal wave, sweeping away trees, rocks, skiers and snowmobiles. Alarms went off inside the car. The mechanism ground to a shuddering halt.

Jeff had time only to scream, "_Hang on!"_ and throw himself across as many of his terrified family as he could reach, before the deadly avalanche struck the first cable car tower. Over the roar and crack of hurtling snow, they heard another sound, like the dying moans of a prehistoric monster..., or fatally stressed metal. Their car jerked and swayed, then began to dip as one of the support towers crumpled, then another. A sudden blizzard of ice-chunks and high-flung rocks pelted the bucking cable car, shattering all of the front windows and filling the air with jagged debris. The universe was white, and sharp and fearsomely loud, as it shook them like a cat with a captured mouse.

The car heaved up and down, jerked violently sideways, then began to tilt. It lurched and dropped about thirty feet, was arrested at last by the cable safety brake. Now it hung almost vertically, swinging over clawed and rushing ice.

Jeff clutched his wife and baby son with one arm, while clinging blindly to a seat with the other. Someone had seized hold of his left pants leg. Unable to move that leg, for fear of shaking one of his boys loose, Jeff braced himself against a steel support pole with his right. Two of the boys were higher up in the car, balanced precariously on the slippery plastic of a seat back. He could hear them calling their mother. John and Virgil, it sounded like.

"Lucy...!" Jeff grunted hoarsely. His grip had begun to slip. "Can you...climb up... onto a seat?"

"I think so," she responded gamely, never doubting him, even now. Using her husband's body as a living ladder, she began scrambling up toward the higher seat, keeping the baby pressed tight to her chest. "It's okay, boys," she tried to comfort the little ones, "Mommy's coming."

"Get yourself braced...," Jeff grated out, "And Scott can come after... after you." He wasn't certain how much longer he could hold on. Till his last strength, he supposed, though he was getting closer by the minute.

Lucy's ski boots scrabbled for purchase, finding the briefest of toeholds on his belt, then shoulder. Jeff held very still, willing himself not to let go of the plastic bench. Finally, she scrambled onto the seat, relieving the pressure on his straining arm. His hand was beginning to cramp.

"Scott...," Jeff panted, "Your turn, son. Follow... follow your mother."

"Yes, Father." The upturned face, blue-eyed and trusting, wore a look of almost adult determination. Clutching fistfuls of cloth, Scott heaved himself slowly upward, inch by shaky inch. He kept his eyes on his parents the entire time, ignoring the cold, the swaying car, and the many small cuts that throbbed and burnt on his hands and face. He'd made it as high as his father's chest when the brake slipped. Not much; three, four feet at the most, but the cable car shuddered again. Lucinda, who'd been peering anxiously over the back of her perch, watching her oldest son's progress with breathless concern, slipped and fell.

Had she let go of the baby, she might have saved herself. Had Jeff not been supporting Scott, he might have been able to seize hold of his wife, as she hurtled past. Instead, in a moment that would be branded in all their minds for the rest of their lives, Lucinda Tracy gave one despairing cry, plummeted to the back of the cable car, crashed through the rear window, and was gone. The avalanche swallowed them both, mother and baby, burying them beneath an ocean of rumbling ice.

Scott froze, unable to move or breathe, feeling a fist crush his heart to powder. His younger brothers whimpered quietly, too shocked to cry out. But his father, voice like a whiplash, ordered him on.

"Keep climbing, Scott! I've got to reach her before it's too late! _MOVE, dammit!"_

He made it up somehow, driven by his father's pitiless determination. In the next thirty minutes Jeff Tracy's iron will saved his remaining sons' lives, and his own. He got them to the car's trap door, waited for the snow to finally settle, then used the emergency bosun's chair to lower them one at a time; first Scott, then John and Virgil, and lastly, himself.

Once on the ground, he thought to try Lucy's cell phone. No answer, and no ring that they could hear from their position atop the icy, unstable slope. He and the boys moved slowly forward, holding hands, stepping with care, and searching desperately for any sign at all of their buried loved ones. By the time the mountain rescue team arrived, Jeff was frantic. He thrust his sons at a couple of civilian volunteers, and went off with the search-and-rescue crew, meaning to find his wife and baby, or die in the attempt.

She'd been wearing an avalanche locator beacon, of course. Anyone intending to ski, or even just ride the cable car to the slopes, was required to have one. Jeff and the rescue team traced the beacon's signal to its source, about ten feet below the surface, some two-hundred-fifty yards downslope, and began to dig. Perhaps four feet from their quarry they began to hear a noise; sort of a thin, wracking wail. One of the rescuers remarked that he'd once heard a dog hit by a car that sounded like that. Not in English, fortunately, for Jeff was too desperate to have held his temper. Down in the snow hole, an emergency worker encountered cloth. An arm. He dug harder, eventually looking up and calling for a stretcher.

"What's he saying?" Jeff demanded, seizing another rescuer by the collar.

The man broke free, stepped quickly away, one hand at his radio. People in emergency situations were often prone to violence, after all.

"He calls for... er, carrier," the accosted rescue worker replied slowly, keeping a weather eye on Jeff. "One alive, he is saying."

_One alive..._, But, which one? Lucy... or the baby? Jeff stood there for what seemed like forever, one arm clutched tight across his mid-section, the other hand pressed against his face, not knowing what to pray for.

That day, Jeff Tracy watched the sheeted form of his wife loaded into an ambulance, then escorted his tiny, broken son to the local hospital, only to be told that the baby was not expected to live. That day, Jeff Tracy turned his back on God.

The rest had been a blur; a long, silent, frozen scream. The boys went to his parents in Wyoming. Lucinda's body was flown back to the States on the same plane.

For over a week, Jeff haunted the intensive care ward, watching numbly as the little one struggled for life. Finally, with funeral arrangements to be made, and a business to run, he had no choice but to summon a relative, a cousin-by-marriage, recently widowed.

She met him in the hall outside the intensive care ward; a small-boned thing, red-haired and gamine, with a face that would have been cute, had it not been so utterly desolate.

"Jeff, I'm so sorry," Kathleen whispered softly, embracing him.

Refusing to break down, Jeff merely nodded, patted her slender back, then disengaged. He was exhausted and far beyond tears, his hair already going grey.

"He's in here, Kathy," Jeff told the young woman, pausing with one hand at the entry buzzer. "I... I appreciate your coming so quickly. I don't know how long it's going to take for Gordon to... How long it's going to take. I'd stay myself, but...,"

She placed a hand on his arm. "I understand, Jeff, and I'll watch over the little one, f'r however long it takes. I promise."

Jeff nodded silently, pressed the buzzer, and was admitted to the pediatric intensive care unit. He led his young cousin to the baby's bedside, barely acknowledging the ward nurses.

Kathleen's breath caught, and she looked away for a moment, then steadied herself.

"Sorry," Jeff fumbled, "I guess I should have prepared you better. Maybe it was wrong to ask you to come."

She shook her head, then turned back to the little bed, with its many tubes, and beeping, flashing machines.

"No, Jeff. I'll make do. I couldn't be there f'r Joe, but I c'n do this."

"Thank you, Kathy. Let me know..., and I'll come back for him." Jeff then turned, looked down at his dying baby son, sighed deeply, and left the room.

Kathleen Tracy found a chair, pulled it up to the bedside and sat down to wait. Reaching out, she stroked the baby's fingertips, murmuring,

"It's alright, Little Man; I'm here."

And nothing was ever the same.

_Elsewhen..._

Scott had grown silent and pensive, lost in the past. Sensing danger in his mood, Cindy shook her head.

"What happened wasn't your fault, Scott. Sure, you wanted to go with your folks. Show me a kid who doesn't! But young children can't be held responsible for their parents' decisions... or deaths. Things happen."

"So I've heard," he responded quietly. "I've even told Virgil that. It makes him feel better. Not John, though. Better not to bring the subject up with him. He just goes quiet and shuts down. Which is probably why he likes it up there in the space station. No awkward conversations. You know..," Scott continued, after resetting his instruments for the next navigational beacon, "...for two years after the funeral, he never said a word. Not one. Dad thought he was crazy. We all tried to cover for him; Virgil and me, Grandma and Granddad. Kept him out of Father's way... got him 'home schooled'."

Then he smiled a little, as a better memory came to him. "Know the first words he said, after two years?"

Cindy shook her head, no.

"He wandered into the kitchen, put his arms around Grandma, and said, 'I'm hungry'. She almost had a heart attack, started hollering for Granddad. We all rush in, and there's John, sitting on her lap, eating cake batter out of the bowl like nothing happened. It was great, though, having him mostly back with us. Sort of like a family, again."

Gradually, the topic shifted to lighter moments, happier memories. There weren't as many 'after' as 'before', but they were there, and Scott treasured them. Which explained, in a way, his determination to reach Portland in time for Gordon's next race.

"He doesn't make a big deal about it," Scott told her, as he began final approach, "but he likes having family out to watch the meets. This is kind of a surprise visit." Then, "Okay, sit tight...," Calling in to the Portland tower one last time, Scott brought the plane skimming toward the runway. Fascinated, Cindy stared out the right window, watching the jet's shadow ripple over houses, cars and roads, slowly growing as they came lower, till it rose to meet them along with the pavement. The plane touched down so smoothly, she felt barely a bounce, heard but the slightest screech from the tires.

As they taxied up to the corporate hangar, a set of rolling doors yawned wide, spilling forth a team of uniformed mechanics.

Scott glanced over at Cindy, giving her the same cocky smile he'd flashed in Macedonia, when their hideout invaders turned out to be US Marines. Flying as therapy; new one on her, but...

"Yeah, okay," she admitted teasingly. "You're a decent pilot."

_"Decent?"_

"Okay, then..., fair. Not bad. I mean, I've had better landings...but you did alright."

At once amused and injured, Scott caught up the jet's flight log, saying,

"Fair, huh? Hold that thought, woman, because one day soon, I'll take you up in my _other _aircraft, and we'll see who's 'fair'."

Better. He was joking around again, having banished his ghosts for a time. Cindy hit the figurative ball back into his court, with a bit of a back-spin.

"Deal. But then you have to come climbing with me."

To her delight and astonishment, Scott agreed, not realizing, perhaps, what he was getting himself into. It wasn't any tame little gymnasium wall she had in mind. It was Mt. Rainier, one of the most demanding climbs in the lower 48, and the best head-clearer in all the world.


	3. Chapter 3: Crossroads

_Cindy makes a decision._

3

The swimming events were taking place in downtown Astoria, where an immense natatorium had been built to showcase the racing, diving and synchronized swimming competitions. The small city was overjoyed, and a bit overwhelmed, its citizens and businesses scrambling madly to accommodate the sudden windfall of free-spending tourists.

Scott and Cindy reached the Olympic natatorium just thirty minutes prior to the start of Gordon's race- the 400 meter individual medley. The stands were packed, but they found their seats in relatively short order, stopping just long enough to buy a snack (popcorn) and some souvenir programs (over-priced). They took their seats just as the swimmers came out onto the pool deck. Scott pointed out his brother, who seemed nothing like the scrappy, hyperactive powerhouse he'd described. Just exhausted and depressed, which was senseless, considering he'd made it all the way to the Olympic games, and a medal ceremony. Oddly enough, though, there was something familiar about him.

Wishing she could get a closer look, Cindy glanced over at the stadium's vast electronic scoreboard. It flashed frenetically from swimmer to swimmer, somehow never quite focusing in on Gordon. Interesting. Well, there was always the program.

It was while she was scanning the team rosters that Cindy noticed something strange.

"Hey, Scott?" she asked curiously, "Why isn't your brother listed with the US swim team? You guys_ are _American, right?"

He leaned over, flipped a few pages further in her program, and pointed to a rather blurry, thumbnail sized photograph.

"Right there," he told her. "European Union. And the short answer is, it keeps him further off the radar. He can't afford to be recognized by anyone we've rescued, and doesn't _want_ to be associated with the corporation. Someone would certainly start hinting that Father's money got him on the team."

Fair enough. Explained the extreme brevity of his program bio, at any rate. Compared with the other athletes, Gordon's personal information was so obscure it might as well have been written in Sanskrit. Still...

"There's more to it than that..," Cindy ventured, carefully studying Scott's face, "...but it's one of those 'before' versus 'after' things, right?"

He nodded.

"One of these days, I'll probably tell you about it, but right now..., right now, someone's waving at us."

"... And one of them's a brother, I think." Cindy cut in, as he pointed to the next seating section. A woman ( blonde, late thirties, chunky jewelry, bright lipstick) had given them a rather hesitant smile and a little wave. Two kids were seated beside her. The boy (whom Cindy had met once, in San Francisco) looked similar enough to be related. The girl was an oriental Audrey Hepburn, elegant, poised and lovely.

Smiling slightly, Scott waved back.

"That's Gennine, my father's former wife. You already know Alan, and beside him is TinTin, a family friend. Well, more of an adopted sister, really. We can go over and say 'hi', after the race, if you like."

More family. Great. Wondering if the entire known universe was related to Scott Tracy, Cindy flashed her brightest, cover-girl smile. Then the buzzer sounded, and there was no more time for elaborate, sign-language 'hellos'. Thank Heaven.

What Cindy knew about Olympic swimming could have been written in three-inch block letters on one side of an index card ('be first', basically), but even she could see that things were not going well. The swimmers changed styles with every other lap, and Scott's brother seemed to lose ground at each turn. Clearly, he was tiring.

Cindy stared at the frothy, churned up pool, then up at Scott, who'd gotten to his feet. The crowd was screaming and clapping, calling encouragement to their favored swimmers in surges timed to match the young men's surfacing. Scott remained quiet, though, watching as Gordon dropped to fourth.

Then, somewhere around the freestyle lap (Australian Crawl, Cindy would have called it), his brother apparently decided not to lose. He literally turned blue doing it, but Gordon somehow heaved himself into high gear and shot past the third place guy. Touching perhaps a tenth of a second faster than his anguished competitor, Gordon smashed headfirst into the wall and sank, apparently unconscious.

_"Oh, shit! Gordon!"_ Now, Scott exploded out of his watchful silence. _"Get him out of there! He's drowning!"_

Vaulting over about three rows of seats, Scott got to the aisle and raced for the pool deck. Cindy followed, reaching the gate just as Gordon's teammates hauled him out of the water. Alan and TinTin were already with Scott, threatening to tear the gate down if they weren't allowed in. Scott didn't threaten, merely spoke; but whatever he said was so effective, the guards nodded respectfully and opened up at once.

The crowd was making so much noise, Cindy's ears were ringing. It sounded like a concert in there, or street rioting. She spotted Gennine picking a way through the crowd, and paused to let the older woman catch up. They went through the gate together, joining the ring of teammates, officials and family who'd gathered around Gordon.

He was breathing, she noted with relief. Gasping, actually; clutching an oxygen mask to his face with hands that shook. Another swimmer and what looked like a coach were supporting Scott's younger brother, talking to him in low, encouraging tones. Then they helped him to his feet, and the three started walking up and down the deck, Gordon so rubbery-weak and uncoordinated, he looked drunk. She recognized him, then. He'd worn a uniform last time she'd seen him, but it was definitely the same young man who'd fetched her away from the triage tent in Macedonia, red hair and all. _'Small world,' _she started to think, then, _' No..., large brood.'_

Looking over at the scoreboard, she saw that the little dickens had won a bronze medal, after all. Scott, Alan and TinTin went over to congratulate him. As it was obviously a family moment, Cindy hung back, found herself standing by Gennine. Outside, looking in, wondering whether she really wanted to involve herself with this tangled, haunted family. Then, gazing at Scott, she made up her mind. He was worth it. Come what may, he was the one, and no other.


End file.
